Kathleen Murphy has died.
While I am no stranger to death, and in fact sudden traumatic death, this grief after a mentor’s death has hit me hard. I am one year into my 5th term on the school board. That will be 15 years at the completion of this term, just 6 years shy of my time as a teacher in the district.
I am still on the school board because of Kathleen Murphy.
She has been gone from us in the day-to-day sense since late July. In a heartfelt and tear-producing moment, she let us know she needed a one-month medical leave. When she began to speak to the board, she suddenly went silent. It hung there, that silence, for several seconds. I glanced over and saw she was struggling.
I put my hand on her back. I whispered, “it’s ok.” I waited.
We all waited.
When she could finally speak she let us know she was having some trouble with her voice, and with getting over some lung issues. The cold that never leaves. There was love and support from all of us, and uncomfortable gratitude from her.
I was one of the last to leave the room. I gave her a hug, told her to listen to the doctors and to hurry back.
I would never talk to her or see her again.
I just wrote an email about the “lasts.” When Molly died it dawned on me that every day leading up to her death from the prior year was her last of that day, or event, etc.
As I watched Kathleen leave the boardroom in her typical professionally dressed fashion, I had no idea it would be her last. I am quite sure she didn’t either. None of us could have predicted that.
I was on the ad-hoc committee that brought Kathleen to Concord. I had actually forgotten this until I found the news coverage of it during a midnight doom scroll. Our district was in the throes of an awful sex abuse scandal that had devastated our community.
A year with Frank Bass, our warm fuzzy interim superintendent, had eased our pain a bit, but we were reeling. As we navigated a futile search for a superintendent, COVID hit and we were at a standstill.
Then along came Kathleen Murphy.
What I have come to learn is that Frank made a call to Jerry Frew, a long-time Concord School District administrator and local hero. Another educator everyone loves. Frank was seeking help in finding someone who might come to Concord to replace him.
Jerry called Kathleen.
When our little committee brought her to the full board, the comments and social media posts and opinions started flying. The messages I received were either completely for or adamantly against bringing her to Concord.
I think this is what I loved most about her. She did not come to us with a sanctimonious air of superiority or perfection. “I am as damaged as anyone else is,” she said. I have been through the wringer, but I am still here and still ready to do the work.
The board was as equally divided as the community and the vote was 4-4 when the last member had to cast her vote. She sat quite still for a bit and then voted yes. When I asked her afterwards why she said yes, her main reason was that Kathleen, with all of her baggage, was clearly better than having no superintendent. She figured it was just for a year and it would buy us time.
We all agreed she couldn’t be worse than what we had gone through. And it did just that — it bought us time. As we navigated our first year with her, we put off an external search for a replacement. We gave her a second year with the understanding that we would either search for a replacement or offer her a three-year contract.
At the beginning of last year, we asked her if she would consider remaining for another year. She was, actually, going to suggest it to us. And so here we were, hanging on to Kathleen like a group of hopeful children hoping for one more ride at the fair or one more present under the tree.
In looking back over my time with her, a lot has happened. I was on the executive committee and poised to move into leading the board when she arrived. That board, in my opinion, was the most effective one in my time serving. A re-election that completely flipped the narrative, and politically motivated new members soon saw me with no leadership whatsoever.
I was hurt, and angry.
Kathleen was masterful. I chuckle as I write this because part of me knows that she was making the decisions necessary for her to be successful and for the needs of the children to be met. She knew how to play the game.
So, she reached out. She checked in. And when I said I was not going to run for re-election, that I had no intention of seeking a 5th term, her face fell. She was in utter disbelief. “You have to,” she replied. The board needs you. The community needs you.
She went full force. As the time for entering my name into the race approached, as we passed the days, I waited. I needed to be sure my motivations were coming from the right place.
I announced my decision to run again from Animal Kingdom at Walt Disney World.
I did it as a Facebook live. I reached out via text shortly after I posted to let her know. She told me she had already seen it. She thanked me and told me it was the right thing to do. Quite honestly, I was not sure I would even get re-elected. Current board leadership does not like me at all.
I ran because of Kathleen.
Her knowledge, her perspective, her history. And now she is gone. I have had a rough time coping with the loss of a mentor. I have cried every day. It represents the progression of time. It illustrates loss. It shows that life is, for the most part, impermanent.
Nothing lasts forever.
In reading her obituary, I learned that I was entering third grade when she began teaching, in a classroom at Dewey School that in 49 years time become her office.
I read memories posted that are tender and emotional and full of gratitude. She reminds me in these moments of my maternal grandfather. All of us grandchildren felt like we were his favorite. We all felt like the most special one because he made us feel that way.
Kathleen did too. I remember wondering if my grandfather was being fake or lying to us. But the truth was, at that moment he was being present. He was fully dialed in. In those moments we were his favorite.
This was Kathleen — fully dialed in to the person sitting in front of her.
So, this week she will be viewed, eulogized and buried. All that knew her and loved her will offer their words of condolence to her children and grandchildren. And them? They will hurt. They will stumble through these next days and months wondering how to navigate a life that was irrevocably changed in 2025.
As youthful and healthy as she and her husband were, they died quickly and suddenly — the sudden death of a superintendent and her partner — and, in my opinion, way too soon. Kenny will be 70 in 4 days. I am not ok with only having another five years with him. My mother is 83. Kathleen should have seen 83.
I am not sure how the school board will feel or what will happen next for our district. I have a great deal of anxiety about it. I know that the people in our district office will notice her absence the most. It will be a day-to-day, moment-to-moment experience for them.
I hurt for them and how they must feel.
A big piece of my grief in losing Molly has been watching others do all the things she never got to do. The most common response to this is that Molly is “in a better place” and that “she is fine.” While my belief system supports the idea that Molly is quite fine, it does nothing to lessen my sadness.
Kathleen never got her retirement party. She never got those golden years with her husband. She never got to hear all the thank-you messages from the hundreds of people she affected in her 54 years as a public educator. And while she may have bristled at the thought of this attention, she deserved it, and she never got it.
This post is a small tribute to a beloved educator.
If I could tell her one last thing, I would share that I am thankful she saw me. I would thank her for listening to my story and finding out that some people she worked with had treated me quite badly. I would thank her for believing me. Her support of me as a board member, educator, coach, mother, and fellow female was unwavering and sincere.
Thank you, Kathleen. I hope that whatever your heaven may look like for you, that it is full of love and light and all those people you knew who went there first. I hope you find Molly — or rather, that she listens to her mother and finds you. Because you helped Molly’s mom in ways few would understand. And for that, she will be forever grateful.
